by Pynk
“Really?” She always had a look about her that made me feel like she had the ability to see my every move, every second of every day, even when I was shitting, like she knew the color and smell, but asked about it anyway.
“Yes.”
“You do anything after school?”
“No.” My armpits were dripping already.
“You do anything after school?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“You do anything after school?” This time her look changed.
I knew better. “Yes.”
Silence. Frown.
I spoke on. “I went to my friend Alicia’s house.”
Silence. Deeper frown.
“That’s it,” I said, sounding like a mouse.
“Alicia’s mother called.” She closed the Bible, placed it on the end table, and adjusted the handle on the side of her recliner to sit straight up. Her scent was even stronger.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Caught you hiding in the closet. With Alicia’s older brother.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that part?”
“Ma’am?” Oh God, I felt like, what more does she know.
Silence.
“Because it was nothing. Alicia wasn’t supposed to have company and I didn’t want her to get in trouble.” I felt like Pinocchio. My nose grew like a weed.
“Naked, Rebe? You and her brother were in the closet naked?”
I felt a little pee leak from between my legs. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Go to your room.” She reached to the other side of the chair.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Get naked.”
Physically, I did what my mental begged to reject. I moved slowly, and then looked back to see her, two steps behind me, her hands behind her back, the impatient, wild look in her eyes. One eye was bigger, angrier than the other. I sped up.
“Lay down.”
My room had only the light from a low-wattage lamp, aglow on my bed like a mini-spotlight. I lay on my back on my twin bed, plaid covers, and she hopped on top of me in her leggings and baggy brown smock, and right away, slapped my left cheek and then my right, left, right, left, right, over and over while I kicked my feet and blocked my face with my hands.
“Move your hands.”
She socked my hands and arms, and punched me in the head.
“You’re a tramp. You’re twelve and you’re a tramp already. Mark my word, you’re gonna end up pregnant.”
“No. I’m not.” I screamed bloody murder.
“Shut up. You’re a whore. Did you have sex with him?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did. Turn over.”
“No. Please.” I closed my eyes and started swinging.
She jerked back and yelled, “Did you just hit me? Turn the hell over.”
I heard the neighbor’s German shepherd, named Queenie, barking and whining like he’d heard an ear-piercing siren.
She shouted, “You’re a damn ho!”
I opened my eyes as she stood and held my breath, turning over, and then as soon as my belly and face touched the bumpy mattress, I heard, “Mom. No.” And in an instant, it was like someone shot me in the back of the head. I tried not to scream but my voice failed. I tried to talk but my words slurred in my head. I went black.
When I awoke, I was in the hospital. My brother was dead. And my mother was in jail for first-degree murder, and attempted murder. Funny thing was, even though my mother said my brother hit me over the head and that she was the one who saved me after managing to fight him off, hitting him on his forehead in self-defense…that night, it was her, Violet Palo, who called 911. The ambulance was there in five minutes. That call saved my life. Otherwise, I would have been dead.
I was in the hospital on the day of my own brother’s funeral. I testified against Violet Palo six months later.
Rebe scooted back and massaged her shoulder, just at the point where her brother’s name, Maestro, was tattooed on her skin.
Dr. Love said, “My goodness. Are you going to be okay, Rebe?” She checked Rebe’s face, expecting an oncoming barrage of tears to match her cracking voice, and offered a box of tissues.
“Yes. Thank you.” Rebe took one and balled it up in her hand. She went right back into speaking again. “I lived with my father here in Florida while I healed the first year. I missed that year of school. I was recovering from a depressed skull fracture. It was the blunt force trauma that dented my skull bone, causing a hemorrhage in my brain. The dent was one-half inch deep. They operated to get rid of the bony pieces in my head, and when they inspected my brain for injury, they relieved the bleeding that had begun between my brain and skull. It was from the rupture of a vessel. I had a brain injury caused by Violet, well, caused by my own mother.
“My father couldn’t keep his fast self home often enough to raise me. He said he was depressed about losing his son. So he kept chasing women like he’d been doing when he left us in the first place. I kind of raised myself. In high school I met my friends Darla and Magnolia, two girls who were more like sisters than anything. The other kids in school who heard about my mother and what happened said I was weird, some said fast, some said crazy. Oh well.
“So, that’s when I met my daughter’s dad, Trent. I got pregnant, didn’t even tell my dad, and moved in with Trent in his small bachelor apartment while we were still in high school. Dad moved back to Maui. It was no big deal to me. I thought I’d be better off under the same roof as Trent, but he had as many problems as I did. He was an addict, broken like me. I thought we were the perfect pair. But like he said, I had a temper. And people didn’t believe it but, as fast as everyone thought I was, I hated sex. He loved it. He left, and later died of an overdose.
“So anyway, I’ve been on these hormone pills all my life, and then on these new hormone therapy pills that I think finally kicked my sex drive into fifth gear, and on Zoloft still, even now. But no matter how much I started craving sex, or how much my depression lifted, I still haven’t felt lovable. Just unhappy.
“Doctor, I’m sure you know from reading my file, but the same thing that happened to me when I was twelve happened to me at forty. To have my own daughter save me while being attacked is more than I can bear. It’s more than I want her to bear. Our demons are not something I want my unborn child to have to inherit.
“As a mother, I now realize that she didn’t have babies so she could love them. She had babies so they could love her. She was a narcissist. A sociopath who didn’t feel empathy. She was hard on us from day one. So hard that we couldn’t love her. And now I know she couldn’t love us either. She couldn’t identify with another person’s feelings. It’s like we were a burden to her.
“By the way, just like her, I got pregnant at seventeen. But now, the legacy of this anger gene can’t be mine. I don’t want to screw up this chance at having another child. At times, I’m this doting mother, and then I flip into a distant mom, unavailable, unable to empathize, like my mother. That’s not normal. And with all the money I have, it won’t buy my happiness. Please. Help me.” She sniffled and tried to hold it. But this time a tear did flow, and then another, and Rebe sniffled and wiped her eyes and nose. “I miss my brother.” Rebe’s slow tears turned into a full-out cry. She covered her face with her hands, and just let it out.
Dr. Love’s face saddened, and she again offered more tissues, but Rebe didn’t look up. The counselor pulled out four tissues and leaned forward, rubbing Rebe’s arm and putting the tissues on her lap. Rebe took them and wiped under her eyes with mascara running, and fanned her face with her hand, blowing her exhale past her lips.
“I’m sorry,” Rebe told her, looking embarrassed.
“Oh, no. Please don’t apologize. You’ve been through a lot. Your brother tried to protect you. That was a tragic death. Surely it’s hard to take still.”
“You know, my mother never cried. Ever.” Rebe sniffled more and fought to make herself
calm down.
“It’s good that you can cry, Rebe. Very good. It kind of cleanses, like rain. This is major stuff that’s happened to you. Would you like to take a break and get some water or coffee?”
Rebe looked down at her hands that maneuvered the tissues. Her nose was red, her eye makeup was smudged, her foundation was all but wiped off. “No. No thanks. Really. I’m okay. It’s just that I really miss my brother. We were all each other had. I’m surprised I haven’t had a total breakdown by now. There was so much evil back then. So much that went wrong. Even though I was born on the day of love, Valentine’s Day, it still didn’t make a difference. ”
Dr. Love reached over and touched Rebe’s arm.
Rebe looked up.
The doctor sat back. “Rebe, yes, a lot of evil. Though one thing I can tell you is, I don’t believe you have some ‘evil gene.’ Psychopathy can be an inherited trait, but I know for a fact there’s nothing wrong with your moral compass. It works. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t have raised Trinity the way you did, being there for her, making sure she made it through school, and providing for her like you have. I think at some point in your life, there was enough nurturing, probably from your father, as distant as he was, or from your older brother, to overcome the traits of your mom. From what you tell me about Trinity, you broke the curse. Yes, Trinity and this new baby are your bloodlines, but they don’t have to suffer. Trinity needs to keep coming in and she needs to continue her victim’s advocacy counseling. She nearly killed a man. That’s extremely traumatic. She needs consistent psychotherapy. You’re smart, Rebe. You’re a college grad. You can even help other kids, just like you can help your own children. Victims of heinous crimes are the best advocates for victims’ rights.”
Dr. Love picked up a clipboard and pen and started writing. “I want you to continue coming. I won’t prescribe meds for you. Based on your history of brain injury, you need to consult with your neurologist, and also with your gynecologist if you still need pituitary stimulants for your brain injury, like hormone therapy, but only after the birth. I think still being on Zoloft, which is a category B drug, is fine, just don’t breastfeed while taking it. But in my opinion, taking it outweighs the risks of not taking it.” She picked up a paperback book from her glass desktop. “But I will ask you to read this book called Trauma and Recovery by Dr. Judith Herman. I suggest Trinity reads it, too. It covers the aftermath of violence for those who might experience posttraumatic stress disorders. It’s a good source of finding a way to feel good based on our thoughts, and not buying into our negative thinking.”
Rebe’s face was still flushed. Her eyes glassy. She took the book and looked over the cover. “Thanks.”
“But most important, enjoy the rest of your pregnancy. Live in the present. And I’ll see you next week. Okay?” Dr. Love’s voice sounded as though she was prompting Rebe’s agreement.
“Okay.” Rebe reached for her suede purse that was on the coffee table in front of her.
“And Rebe.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Rebe said while placing the book inside the middle compartment of her bag.
“First of all, no need to call me Ma’am.”
“I’m sorry. I know better. I hate that, too.”
Dr. Love caught Rebe’s eyes and they both smiled. “What I want to tell you is, you need to forgive your mother, forgive yourself, and heal by bringing closure to the past. Enjoy the rest of your life. Your brother lost his life so you could live. So live.”
Rebe blinked on hearing the doctor’s last word, and another tear fell. “Thank you, Dr. Love. I will. In his honor, I absolutely will.”
Her hand on her belly as she stood, she felt the life in her kick.
And Rebe’s lips spread into an enormous smile.
Twenty-Nine
“Love and Happiness”
Girlfriends
INT.—TRINITY CATHEDRAL CHURCH—CORAL
GABLES—EARLY AFTERNOON
December 19, 2009
That day, the birds sang even in the afternoon.
The sky above was the color of love.
Paisley.
And though they’d lost their child due to the miscarriage, on the day the baby was due, December 19, the vows had been exchanged and the I Dos had been sealed with a forever kiss. Sealed to cement the union between two people who’d met, of all places, at a swinger’s club.
The long walk down the aisle by a brand-new husband and wife had been taken, and all the family members and guests had caravanned behind the couple’s black stretch limousine, the short distance from the church, across the causeway from Miami to the private tropical island oasis of the Mandarin Oriental Miami hotel for the elegant reception. The Asian serenity was the perfect paradise of private beaches and prestigious bay views. Eighteen-foot ceilings, silk and velvet wall coverings, crystal chandeliers, and glistening skylines framed the spectacular room that was totally decorated in only black and white.
Guests finished up their meals, laughing, joking, smiling, and enjoying the celebration of true love found. The happy couple sat at the wedding party table for two, ready for their reception, him in his black tux and tails with a cream tie, her in her cream satin strapless gown with a black sash and jeweled bridal shoes. Her hair was swept away from her face, curled loosely down her back. Diamond and pearl drop earrings accented her classic beauty. Her wedding bouquet was made of exotic white magnolias and White Naomi roses. They’d spend their wedding night in the Asian serenity of the five-star hotel’s Dynasty Suite on the ninth floor, and head off on an eight-day South Caribbean cruise to Aruba the next morning.
Miller’s son and his wife and child, and Miller’s daughter and her child, were all seated at a table with Magnolia’s grandmother, Gigi, who sat next to Miller’s ex-wife, Beth.
Rebe and Darla, the maids of honor in all black, sat with two of Miller’s friends who were the best men, named Rich and Juan. While Rich was extra friendly with new mother Rebe, Darla was busy enjoying talking to her lover, Grainger. And on the other side of Darla was her father, who for the life of him, couldn’t take his eyes off of Gigi at the other table. And Gigi noticed him notice her. It looked to be her pleasure.
Darla had a look of amazement on her face while taking a moment to nudge her father. She asked, speaking only loud enough for the two of them, “Daddy. Are you staring at Magnolia’s grandmother?”
He didn’t lick his lips but he looked like that was the next step. “Darlin’, it’s been years since I’ve seen her. She’s sure held up nicely,” he said, giving a “Mac Daddy” grin, peeking at her beyond the lavender chrysanthemum centerpieces.
Darla seemed as though her ears had deceived her. She’d never seen her father like that about anyone but her mom. She looked away, trying not to make too big a deal, but made a point to honestly tell herself it really was long overdue. She distracted herself from her father’s visual-admiration party, and turned toward Rebe, asking, “Are you enjoying living in the new house?”
“I am.” Rebe told the others, “I bought a new place in West Lake Village. Just really getting settled in.”
“Nice. In Hollywood?” Rich asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Cool area,” he said. “I work in that county. As a sheriff.”
“Really?” Rebe watched his full, brown lips as he spoke. “Small world.”
“Indeed.” He looked at her lips, chest, and all that he could get his eyes on from where she sat.
And sitting to the left of Rebe was Trinity, holding her three-month-old, off-the-charts long, baby brother. She handed the baby boy, who had a cleft chin, over to his mother.
“Cute baby,” Rich said to Rebe, admiring her big brown boy with the full head of hair.
Rebe said, “Thanks. Actually, these are my two children. My baby son, Tristan, and this is my daughter, Trinity.” She put her hand on Trinity’s back.
“Oh. Wow. Nice-looking family,” Rich said. He turned toward his friend Juan and they began talking.
Rebe moved her focus from him to Darla. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Darla came to a stance.
Trinity took back her baby brother. Rebe planted a kiss on Tristan’s lips, and then as Rebe stood, she kissed Trinity’s forehead. Trinity, dressed in ivory chiffon with teal and lime gemstone dangle earrings, wore the angel charm Magnolia had given her. Trinity closed her eyes briefly and smiled.
Darla joked in Rebe’s ear as they walked, “Surprised you didn’t have twins like you joked, considering the way you described the night you got pregnant. Tristan is a doll, sis.”
“Thanks,” Rebe said, with a chuckle. She held Darla’s hand, still very aware after all the years that had gone by since she had betrayed her friend. But she just couldn’t bring herself to come clean.
Rebe and Darla approached Magnolia and her new husband, standing right in front of them at the bride and groom table, and raised their glasses high, as did Magnolia, Miller, and everyone else.
Rebe said, “Today is your wedding day. When 2009 started out, we had no idea a wedding would even be happening for you, Magnolia. Miller, yes, she was the one out of the three of us who always joked about being the bridesmaid, never the bride. Well, today, Magnolia, you are the bride.”
“Yes she is,” Miller said, platinum band on his finger, holding his new bride close.
“When we started out the year, we had no idea that some of the things that happened so far would’ve happened at all. But God had other plans than ours. If it wasn’t for our New Year’s promises, Darla probably wouldn’t have her new store, I wouldn’t have my new child, and Magnolia, you wouldn’t have a new husband. Miller, thank you for coming into Magnolia’s life and loving her the way she needed to be loved. For cherishing her and making her laugh. She’s changed in a way I can’t explain, but it’s a beautiful thing to see. I guess that’s what real happiness will do for you.”